


delights (violent or otherwise)

by krystallisert



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Hunters, Demon King Oikawa Tooru, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Implied side relationships - Freeform, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Urban Fantasy, hunter reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-15 13:53:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29065386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krystallisert/pseuds/krystallisert
Summary: It is at the crack of dawn you realize you might have made the biggest mistake of your life.The bed creaks, as worn down motel furniture is wont to do, and at once you’re wide awake and aware of just how monumental of a fuck up you have proved yourself to be. You thank yourself for your paranoid nature and insistence of sleeping on the side not blocked by a wall, and you get up on unsteady feet to retreat into the bathroom, collecting your discarded pieces of clothing as you go.You close the door behind you with just a bit more force than intended, cringing and tensing as it slams shut with an exhausted groan. Your shoulders are tense and your face stuck in a grimace as you observe yourself in the small rectangular mirror, bathroom lights yellow and blinking as you force air out of your mouth.So. You just slept with the enemy.
Relationships: Oikawa Tooru/Reader
Comments: 12
Kudos: 68





	delights (violent or otherwise)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sonderings (lacunaletters)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacunaletters/gifts).



It is at the crack of dawn you realize you might have made the biggest mistake of your life. You open your eyes to stare at old, flowery, white-yellow wallpaper. The sensation of skin against yours is unfamiliar, unwelcoming and unsurprising. It feels as if you’ve been sleeping next to a heater, the warmth hitting your back in waves so fierce it’s a wonder the bed has not caught on fire during the hours of the night. It had been a surprise at first, that the skin of a demon could emit such warmth; you had imagined Oikawa to be an entirely cold blooded being. But no, his touches were gentle and his proximity soothing, and for a moment you think that maybe there is something about those stories of him being an incubus after all. 

The moment passes with the rustling of blankets as the lord of the underworld shifts next to you. The bed creaks, as worn down motel furniture is wont to do, and at once you’re wide awake and aware of just how monumental of a fuck up you have proved yourself to be. You thank yourself for your paranoid nature and insistence of sleeping on the side not blocked by a wall, and you get up on unsteady feet to retreat into the bathroom, collecting your discarded pieces of clothing as you go. 

You close the door behind you with just a bit more force than intended, cringing and tensing as it slams shut with an exhausted groan. Your shoulders are tense and your face stuck in a grimace as you observe yourself in the small rectangular mirror, bathroom lights yellow and blinking as you force air out of your mouth. 

So. You just slept with the enemy. That, on its own, is not unheard of. You wouldn’t be the first hunter to succumb to the charms and perceived humanity of someone who was meant to be your prey, and you’re certainly not going to be the last. Last time you heard from Kuroo and Kenma they were still in hiding, running around with a vampire so fucking notorious it was a wonder neither side had hunted them down yet. And Kenma seemed _happy_. The perfect example that despite the unwritten rules and the complicated nature of being with someone who looked the same five hundred years ago, finding love in the strangest of places was a possibility. 

But here’s the thing. Kenma was a fluke. The exception that proves the rule. And Kenma was not sleeping with the _fucking lord of the underworld_. 

You stare at yourself in the mirror, eyes and brain both choosing to ignore the smattering of blue and purple marks decorating the skin of your neck and shoulders. Hands grasp at the filthy porcelain of the sink like an anchor as you work yourself down from a panic attack. Though — and you want to be very clear here — you’re _not_ sleeping with Oikawa. It was a mistake, a hookup, a one time thing. The kind of thing that happens when you’ve been starved of human interaction for too long. It’s an excuse that would have worked just fine if what you’d just done was find some random guy in a bar, it doesn’t quite pack the punch you’d wish for when it comes to the brunet in the other room.

You wonder if you could sneak out before he notices, if you could kill him before he wakes. Both scenarios feel like wishful thinking at best, and you’ve never been one to dawdle. Giving your mirrored reflection one last judgmental stare, you pull yesterday’s sweater over your head and mentally prepare yourself to face your demon.

Oikawa Tooru is, and you hate to admit it, a magnificent beast. His eyes meet yours the moment you step out of the bathroom, a brilliant hue of amber and fire as he fearlessly keeps eye contact. His mouth seems permanently fixed in a confident, lopsided grin and it must be some kind of curse — or blessing — that he manages to look like such a good fit, such a comfortable presence, in even the most dingy motel rooms. His head is propped up on one hand as he regards you with something like playfulness in his expression, and he covers the room in a sort of tense silence as you contemplate what to say to the demon. 

Unwritten rules dictate that you make a run for your backpack, grab your silver and your holy water. Common sense tells you to make use of your upper hand and rid yourself of your enemy while he is still vulnerable. But your body is rooted in place, the tips of your ears still hot and burning and the only thing you can manage is a stare you hope is as displeased as you try to make it. 

It must not work, because Oikawa’s smile only grows brighter and he welcomes you with a cheery “good morning” that feels so normal it makes you cringe. 

There isn’t much that feels particularly dark about Oikawa Tooru. Aside from the devilish color of his eyes and the knowledge of what lurks beneath his pretty, shiny exterior, Oikawa merely looks like a man. Of course, there are things he’s hiding, things like horns and wings and the ability to kill with a snap of his fingers, but on the surface and with these truths hidden, you think that you are less of an idiot for falling for his charms than you give yourself credit for. Doesn’t mean you’re not an idiot, doesn’t mean you haven’t monumentally — _monumentally_ — fucked up, but at least in this light; in the golden yellow hues of the morning, it’s easy to see how one might make such a mistake.

“This is a nightmare,” you exhale, unable to keep the thought caged up in your throat. You’re completely unprepared to deal with this; with a nude demon in your bed and an awkward morning after. Had he been a human you would have come up with some fake platitude, some excuse about work or plans or family crisis. It doesn’t feel as appropriate in this specific conversation, and you have no real desire to spare the demon’s feelings anyways. “An absolute nightmare.”

Oikawa hums, lets his hand fall back onto the hard mattress, his head falling to rest on top of his arm. He watches you as if he can see right through you, largely unbothered by the fact that he’s stuck in a room with someone who wants to kill him. Maybe, you lament, not so strange considering the situation, but his cockiness annoys you all the same. 

“You look nice,” he tells you, teeth pearly white and sharp as his mouth widens in a grin so devilish you might have burst into flame on the spot had it not been for the crucifix around your neck. You’re not sure if the mocking quality of his voice is truth or a figment of your imagination, but you decide to go with the former, if only because it further fuels your annoyance. And god knows you need it right now. 

“I look half dead,” you bite out, ignoring the demon’s gaze as you stomp over to your backpack. One of the first things you learned as a hunter was to pack lightly. Knives, vials, a gun, bullets. A change of clothes, fake ids, your leather bound journal. The second thing you learned was to never unpack, never get comfortable. All your belongings stay in your bag to allow for hasty escapes. 

There’s a loud _crack_ and Oikawa disappears into thin air, the blanket falling to the mattress with a soft thud. You stare at the spot he once occupied for a moment; even for someone used to the supernatural, it was still odd to see magic in action. The room feels as if it’s bursting with energy, a lightbulb flickering and the air dense. You exhale and turn towards the door, yelping and jumping as Oikawa reappears just as easily as he had disappeared. 

He’s close, too close, dressed once again in the strange garb you’re too used to seeing him in now. Dark robes with shimmering, golden constellations and red details. A set of curved horns adorning his head, his eyes more blood than amber. He towers over you, peers down at you with the same easy grin as always. Goosebumps scatter across your skin and suddenly you feel smaller than you are. 

“Leaving already?” He asks, as if you’re an old friend and not a mortal enemy. As if you were more than a sinful mistake, as if he would like for you to stay. You’ve heard rumors of his deceit, and you think you understand where they come from. “Why the rush?” 

“There’s a demon in my room,” you hiss, grabbing your backpack by the straps. You move to walk past him, but Oikawa merely follows, blocking your view of the door. There’s humor in his eyes, a sort of soft affection that reminds you of how Yamaguchi had looked when he got a puppy for his birthday when he was six. You hate it. “And apparently I need to start wearing turtlenecks.”

Oikawa laughs, a bell and wind-chimes kind of sound that seems completely unfitting a dark creature of the underworld. You level him with a serious glare, try your hardest to keep your focus and not forget who it is standing in front of you. His gaze travels down your neck, head tilted as if he were an artist admiring his work. Your frown deepens. He’s toying with you, the devil. Not even slightly intimidated by your long list of hunter accomplishments.

“Okay, okay,” Oikawa relents with a shrug and an unapologetic grin. He sounds less like he’s slept with the enemy and more like he’s been caught with his hand down the cookie jar. “That was my fault. But I’m not sorry.” 

“Of course not,” you mutter. “I’m sure empathy is an entirely unfamiliar concept.” Another shrug of broad shoulders seem to be the only reaction your barb is going to get. “I need to leave before my moral compass completely resets and the shame itself kills me.” 

“Ouch,” he says with an exaggerated wince, but Oikawa moves to the side to let you pass. You wordlessly make your way to the door, intending to leave the motel before the demon can come up with more ways to embarrass you. 

“Until next time.” 

His words make you pause, hand wrapped around the handle of the door, but when you turn your head to look back at him, you’re the only one in the room and the strange, heavy energy is gone from the air.

* * *

“You know,” Tsukishima murmurs, his voice low, smooth and dangerous in that way only he can manage. “Wearing turtlenecks to cover hickeys only really works when you actually usually wear turtlenecks.” Heat rises to your face and your grip on your burger tightens, ketchup and fat spilling out between the buns. The tall man on the other side of the table smiles, and it’s a sharp thing, an _evil_ thing. “It’s pretty childish.” 

“How—” you sputter, fighting the urge to throw your food in his face. “How did you know?” 

He laughs, and suddenly you feel very tricked. You swear had you not known Tsukishima since he was wearing diapers, you would have mistaken him for a demon. He might just as well still be one for the wicked smile on his face and the tone of his voice when he tells you “You just told me.” 

_Damn_. You frown, stubbornness sewing your mouth shut as you stare out the window. In truth you’d rather forget last night’s escapades all together, and you certainly do not want to indulge Tsukishima — of all people — in the details of your lapse of judgement. 

You’re trying to find a way to steer the conversation somewhere else when Tsukishima hums, a sort of vicious glint to his eyes. “So you finally got laid huh, how does it feel?”

You guffaw, once again questioning your long standing friendship with the man. 

“You’re vulgar.” 

“You didn’t answer my question.” 

You lean back, sighing. And you’re back at the motel, then; drenched in memories that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand. There’s constellations behind your eyelids, tingles in your fingertips and you think that if you focused hard enough you could still recall the feel of soft, brown curls against the inside of your hands. You pull yourself out, too embarrassed to pursue that particular train of thought, and you reply to the waiting Tsukishima with a flat attempt at a joke and a misdirection. “Traumatizing.” 

Tsukishima’s demeanor shifts, his cocky arrogance flicked off like a light switch as he regards you carefully. “Do I, uh, are you okay?”

It takes a moment before the sudden shift makes sense, the unusual softness in Tsukishima’s voice throwing you off before you realize the error of your own wording. “Oh.” 

Perhaps it would’ve been easier to digest if you could hide behind some sort of excuse. Nothing quite as dark and evil as Tsukishima had assumed, but if you could blame the event on alcohol or something like demonic possession. Maybe it would have been easier to swallow if you hadn’t been stone cold sober, fully aware and more than willing it would have been easier to admit that you had spent the night with Oikawa Tooru, one of the most dangerous beings in near and far proximity. 

“No,” you mutter, more to yourself than to Tsukishima. “It wasn’t like that, he was— it was consensual. I just shouldn’t have done it.” It feels awkward, discussing your lapse of judgement with your best friend. It shouldn’t, but it does. It makes you feel guilty, your gaze not quite willing to meet his, and not for the first time you wish you had girlfriends. 

In truth, up until a few months ago, you just sort of assumed you’d end up with Tsukishima. Your parents were close, he was your best friend before you even knew what that meant, and it sort of just felt like the natural progression of things. You suspect he felt much the same, cracks in his hard exterior giving glimpses to the softer part of him hidden underneath. You wonder when you stopped thinking of him like that. You wonder when your thoughts of a potential relationship with your childhood friend started coming to you as nothing but missed opportunities and past tenses. 

Maybe when you killed your first vampire. Maybe when you started collecting scars and secrets, maybe when you stepped over the threshold of somewhere Tsukishima, in all his ignorant, blessed glory could never even begin to understand. As it is, you feel yourself pushing him away and it hurts. Letting go of that childish dream, of that safe option; it hurts. Watching Tsukishima cringe whenever you feed him another blatant lie; it hurts. 

There’s something brewing in your chest. Something scary, something unknown. You’re not sure if you’re growing or just losing yourself, but whatever it is, you don’t like it. 

“Why?” He asks when you seem unwilling to elaborate. Tsukishima is comfortable in silences, he thrives on long lapses of tension and awkwardness. He feeds on the energy, basks in his ability to remain unbothered. But he loves to pry even more, and as he reaches over to grab a handful of your fries, you recognize the stubborn glint in his eyes. 

“We’re just,” your mouth struggles to form the words, brain working on any excuse that doesn’t involve the fact that Oikawa literally represents everything you’re fighting against. “Too different, I guess.” 

You see the judgmental arch of Tsukishima’s eyebrow and you realize your excuse is too weak and too vague. “He works for a competing company.” 

It’s a good enough comparison, you suppose, and not for the first time you’re grateful for your own forethought to create a fake life for yourself. A fake job at a publishing company, your hunter friends fake colleagues and fake work friends. “If my colleagues find out they’ll kill me.”

You don’t doubt for a second the truth of that statement, Ushijima’s stoic face swimming to the top of your head.

“Ah,” Tsukishima’s voice is airy and disinterested as he chows down on your precious fries. You always tell him to get his own serving, but he never does. “A modern, dorky Romeo and Juliet. How cute.” 

“Hah!” 

You let the conversation drift, thankful that Tsukishima seems bored with your sex life already, but your thoughts never stray too far from the comparison. It’s not the same, because you and Oikawa do not love each other. It’s _not_ the same, because you don’t even like him, can barely stand him, in fact. But still, the thought lingers, simmers and boils beneath your ribs. 

It feels ominous. 

* * *

You had been on the hunt for the Lord of Demons for six months before you finally encountered him for the first time. 

It was Ushijima who first clued you in to the existence of a ruler of hell in the first place, sharing his notes on the subject with you over a cup of coffee after a particularly shitty run in with a pack of werewolves. You never enjoyed fighting werewolves; their circumstances so tragic and their presence too dangerous to ignore. It was easier with demons and vampires, who paraded their immortality like a badge of honor. Most werewolves just wanted to be left alone. 

Ushijima had patted you on the shoulder — awkwardly and too hard — and when he had offered you a pick me up in the form of caffeine he didn’t have to ask twice. With the exception of your scattered interactions with Kenma and Kuroo, you rarely worked with other hunters. Ever since you were sixteen and accidentally exorcised a poltergeist, you had been working alone, wielding notebooks and artifacts found in a box in the attic of your abandoned childhood home. Ushijima, stoic and silent as he was, was a welcome reprieve from the loneliness of open roads and vacancy signs. 

You’d been trading stories; you told him how you stumbled upon the evil creature who likely killed your parents, he told you about his first wendigo. You told him about your upbringing in foster care, about your foster parents and Tsukishima, he stumbled his way through a story about a shapeshifter you suspected he withheld information about. 

And then he mentioned Oikawa. The renowned king of hell. Supposedly an ancient creature, one of the first of his kind. A trickster, a fallen angel, a demi-god. It was said that he created entire species of demons; succubi and incubi, the crossroad demons. He peddled in trickery, in deals, in lies and seduction. Ushijima had been on his tail for months with no luck, and the tone of his voice had implied he needed help. 

“I can keep an eye out,” you’d told him, fingers gliding over old paper. Every hunter worth anything had their own journal; an archive of their kills, their hunts, their stories. It doubled as both a note taking device and a biography, a reminder of the life they lead should they cease to exist. Ushijima’s book was a relic more than a journal; the leather old and wrinkly and the pages so dry you barely dared to touch them. “And I’ll let you know if I find a lead?” 

Ushijima had nodded, but he said no more of the demon that seemed to occupy his mind. And in the end, six months and endless sleepless nights later, Oikawa was the one who found _you_. 

* * *

Unfortunately, the matter of ridding yourself of the demon turns out to be much harder than anticipated. Sexual blunder aside, Oikawa has been a thorn in your side since the first meeting. At first you were the one following him around, but quickly you realized that you had no fucking idea how to even begin to deal with such a powerful creature. He was always one step ahead, always dodging your punches and evading your traps. 

It was a game to him, a way to pass the time. And sooner or later he apparently started enjoying it. 

You feel his strange energy before you even notice his presence. A slow shiver creeping down your spine alerts you to the now familiar sizzle of electricity in the air just as you’re leaning down to sheathe your dagger back into the strap on your leg. The stench of sulfur lingers, a steaming pool of black gunk in front of you where a vampire stood just a few moments ago. 

Thinking better of it, you right yourself up with the dagger still in your hand and look around for the source of the strange tickle at the back of your neck. Twisting your body around to quickly scope out the alleyway, you’re surprised to find it completely empty. The feeling persists, and when you tilt your head up you finally spot him on the rooftop. He’s nothing but a shadow of glimmering capes and dark wings, red eyes glowing brightly against the night sky. He’s like a hawk; a predator watching his prey from way up high. Once your eyes adjust you can make out the lines of his mouth, curved upwards in a trademark grin. 

Such has your life become, that even when you’re deliberately staying away from his turf and his comrades, chasing thrill seeking vampires into dark alleys as a distraction if nothing else, Oikawa finds you. Back when you were still curious, still unfamiliar and desperate for Ushijima’s approval, you would have appreciated Oikawa’s persistence. He could snap you like a twig. You are acutely aware that if he ever made the effort, you’d be dead within seconds. Despite this, and despite the fact that he most certainly knows you’re no match for him, he’s never laid hands on you. Well. Not.. violently, in any case. Which begs the question—

“What do you want now?”

As if expecting the question, Oikawa laughs, the sound echoing as he disappears from the roof and reappears in front of you in the alley. He truly is a sight to behold, a picture perfect example that not everything that shimmers is gold. You think that on anyone else, the double set of pitch black wings at his back would look grotesque and sinister, that no one else could maintain such a playful, easy expression with eyes like his. 

“Do I have to want anything? Maybe I was just passing by?”

“Pass away, then,” you mutter, shooing him away with your hand. Oikawa pouts, looks way too human and way too approachable for your own good. There are lines. Lines you’ve crossed, lines you desperately need to put back in their proper places. Getting comfy with the ruler of the underworld was never part of your plan, the conversations between you teetering dangerously on the verge of banter. “Go away!”

Oikawa does no such thing, because of course he doesn’t. He takes a step closer, forcing you two steps back. It’s not that you’re afraid of him, not really; the demon has had more than enough opportunity to hurt you at this point and has left them unused up until now. It’s more so that this fact scares you half to death. It’s more so that his presence feels less like an intrusion and more like a reprieve. It’s — perhaps mostly — that you can’t quite look at him without remembering what his face looks like flushed red and with eyes hooded and unfocused. 

The next step backwards puts your shoe right into a cold pool of rainwater, the sound sharp and the sensation just what you needed to clear your head. Water seeps into your shoe, the sole of your foot wet within seconds. You notice Oikawa’s gaze dropping and you seize the opportunity. 

Your wet foot connects with Oikawa’s side with a _thunk_ as you kick him in the hip with a long, deliberate kick of your leg. A dirty trick by all means, but if there’s one thing you’ve learned in your years as a hunter, it is that the creatures of the underworld don’t know how to fight fair. There’s a scar along your shoulder blades that can attest to the fact, and you’d rather not make that same mistake again. Oikawa coughs, air stuck in his throat with the sudden impact, and you turn to make a run for it. 

It’s a futile exercise. Oikawa is not the lord of hell for nothing, and he certainly doesn’t waste time. He’s behind you in a moment, grabbing at the hoodie of your sweater, yanking you towards him with a low growl. You let go of the dagger in your hand, the silver weapon falling to the ground with a clink, and reach back for his hand, flinging him over your shoulder with an impossible strength. He lands flat on his back on the ground in front of you, spins so quickly you barely register it, and before you have time to react he’s grabbed both of your ankles and pulled.

You land on your back, air knocked out of you with a violent gasp. He’s on you within a second, one hand curled around your throat and the other firmly at the side of your head, keeping him hovering over you. His body is hot against yours, his chest pressed against you as he breathes heavily, and you are trapped. His brows are knitted tightly on his forehead, eyes searching your face as you stare back up at him. He looks at you like he wants to speak, like there are words trapped on the tip of his tongue. 

You grasp at the ground next to you, fingertips finding the hilt of your silver dagger. You swipe at him, and he grabs your arm with ease, his legs on either side of your thighs keeping you from struggling under him. You’re reminded, not for the first time, that there’s a deadly beast hiding underneath Oikawa’s pretty, pristine exterior. One hand lightly pressing at your throat and another keeping your dagger away from his face in a steel grip, the demon has you in an unwinnable position. 

“What are you waiting for?” You bite out, words carrying wavering defiance and the remainder of oxygen in your lungs with them. Oikawa’s eyes are wild and hot and burning. He stares at you like he wants to consume you, destroy you completely. 

And he does. He knocks the dagger out of your hand and pins your arm to the ground, pushes against you and covers your mouth with his own. And though it’s not the first time, it feels like it. It feels like a tidal wave crashing into your rib cage, putting butterflies and tingles to shame. It’s nothing so soft and romantic, nothing as careful and fragile. It’s tearing your chest open to expose your beating heart, it’s plunging a knife into your stomach and ripping apart your insides. 

“Stop running away,” he murmurs, his voice impossibly soft against your mouth. Impossible because his eyes still give off a dangerous, red glow. Impossible because he’s your mortal enemy. Impossible because he speaks so clearly, so simply, but you still feel as if you’re missing the meaning of his words. He waits, his face a hair’s breadth away from yours, studying your expression as if he could glean something important from the lines on your face. Waiting, you realize, for your reaction. For permission. 

In your mind you’re standing at a forked road. You’re not a fool, you know yourself well enough to recognize the violent hammering in your chest, the feeling you longed for but never felt with Tsukishima. You see your tall friend on one side, face blank and hands in his pockets. Normalcy, humanity. The way things should be. Maybe you could stop chasing your demons and go back to your old life. Dinners with the family, banter in cafes. You’re sure you could love him if you tried, if you decided that that was what you wanted. Not a raging storm, not a hurricane sort of love, but a quiet one. A comfortable one. 

Kenma stands on the other side, hand in hand with his immortal companion. There are shadows and ghosts covering his skin, stress lines and anxiety plainly displayed in his usually neutral expression. Kenma loves his vampire more than anything else. It’s a self explanatory thing, a blatant and visceral emotion lain bare in every word, every touch. Even though you only met them once before they fled, it was clear that he would die for her. Statistically speaking, he was going to. And that was what he wanted. That kind of love. 

Or maybe not. Maybe it didn’t come down to something as simple as a want. Maybe it was something like the electricity in your fingertips as you move to touch Oikawa’s face, his skin soft as silk and hot as if he was running a fever. Maybe it was something like the aching, hurting, thundering feeling in your chest as his grip around your throat loosens, his eyes widening a fraction as you slide your hand into the caramel curls of his hair.

The sky rumbles above you, echoes the relentless storm raging inside your head. Not a want at all, you conclude, reaching up to meet Oikawa’s waiting lips. His reaction is immediate, he presses against you, hand sliding from your throat to the back of your neck, the other sliding around your shoulder. The sensation in your chest only grows and presents itself clearly for just a moment before it clouds itself again. Not a want, but a _need_. 

You’re not ready to think about what that means, not when Oikawa sinks his teeth into your bottom lip hard enough to hurt, a sound caught between a sigh and a growl vibrating against the flesh of your mouth. The only word swimming around your head as his tongue enters your mouth is _more_. 

More, more, more, more. 


End file.
